


Words

by azriona



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Deaf Character, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Third Person, post-comic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has played for the NHL for four years, and been out of the closet for five weeks.  It’s taken that long for certain words to catch up to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to scienceofobsession for the hockey check/beta, and to ladyprydian for the beta/everything else. They are both awesome and deserve way more sleep than they are currently getting.
> 
> **Trigger Warning:** Tasteless and unfunny jokes made about hearing impairment. (These jokes absolutely do _not_ reflect the views of the author.)

Look, I’m not one of those homophobic jerks, all right?  I know the power of words.  I know they hurt, and maybe not just the person who’s meant to hear them.  I learned that lesson young.

But none of that matters on the ice.  And I learned _that_ even younger.

*

The check that threw Jack against the boards wasn’t entirely unexpected.  The game had been fast and furious, and Jack had _stolen_ the tying goal from the other team.  Just reached out and _stolen_ it, like the ice and the puck and the _twigs_ themselves all belonged to him.  So he knew it was coming, because the Falcs were up on the Bruins 4-3, and now Jack had just made it 5-3, with _their stolen goal_ , and honestly, if Jack hadn’t been slammed into the boards before the end of the game, he would have been insulted.

It still knocked the wind out of him, that moment of skating and then _wham_ , right into the boards, face meeting the plastic, the rough scrape of it against his cheek.  It’d burn later, he suspected, but he couldn’t feel it just then, not really.  The asshole who’d checked him hadn’t let up yet.  Jack could feel his hot breath on his ear.

“You fucking _faggot_ ,” snarled the player, and Jack couldn’t hear anything else.

*

Fucking Zimmermann stole _my. Fucking. Goal._

Okay, fine, it wasn’t the _first_ goal of my career, or the season, or – hell – even that _game_.  And it’s not like I hadn’t had a goal stolen right from between my skates before.  Happens at least three times a season, has since I was ten, probably will happen until I’m dead.  Cap says it’s gonna be on my fuckin’ _tombstone_ , and he’s right, because if it isn’t, I know he’ll carve it there himself by moonlight.

But it was _my fucking goal_.  And then he goes and rubs his celly in my face on _my_ ice? A man’s gotta stand up for _some_ things, all right?  If I’d stolen his goal, he would have done the same.

And fuck, it’s not like he hadn’t heard that particular word on the ice before we all knew about him.

Just… not _since_. 

*

The world narrowed down to that word, to the hot breath on Jack’s neck, to the bead of sweat rolling down his temple. The boards vibrated with the silent pounding and screaming from the fans on the other side; the scent of the ice was copper-cold but distant. 

Jack felt the hollow, sickening empty feeling of his heart not beating in his chest.

Five weeks.  He’d had to wait _five weeks_ after coming out publicly as gay before he heard that word on the ice, directed at him.  He wasn’t sure if he was shocked or bemused at how long it’d taken. Sure, it’d been thrown at him outside the stadium since coming out, countless times.  From Falconer fans when he and the team left after a loss, from other teams’ fans as the Falcs celebrated after a win.  He knew it appeared regularly on internet chatroom boards, and undoubtedly in the presumably piles of mail that George didn’t forward on. 

But never on the ice.  Not when cameras were rolling, not when there was the slightest chance that someone could hear.  It didn’t matter if the other players thought it – and he knew there were some that did.  But no one wanted to bring on the shit storm from actually _saying_ it, because no way did the guy who hurled _that_ derogatory comment get off scott-free. 

Not all of the lines on the ice were blue.

*

You don’t really hear a lot of chirping in the youth leagues.  Most of us are still trying to stay upright on our skates. 

You hear more of it in high school.  Stupid shit, mostly: claims of superiority or ice ownership, yo-mama jokes swiped from the internet or straight out cussing.  Nothing that doesn’t slide right off your skin, especially the skin that’s heard it all before, had some real zingers thrown at it. 

I never even hear ‘em.  I’ve been ignoring that shit since I was five.  I learned how from the best.

*

The word still hung in the air; it echoed between them as Jack stared at the goon.  For a second that lasted the rest of Jack’s career – it was all he could hear.

Then he breathed. 

With the sharp intake of air, everything else swam into focus: the pounding of the crowd on the other side of the boards, the scratch and swish of skates on the ice behind him, the shout of his teammates, coming to the rescue, and the whistle of the refs, eyes narrowed with intent. 

Five weeks was a long time to wait for something that didn’t happen. A lot of time to talk it over, discuss ways to respond.  Laugh over dinner parties about the most outrageous, ridiculous come-backs, and in the dark of night, stare up at the ceiling because Jack knew it was coming, even if he didn’t know when or who would throw it.  He’d lace up before every game, determinedly not thinking, “Maybe today.”

He couldn’t remember the line, exactly, but he remembered Eric saying it as he cleared the table after dessert, the empty pie plate in his hand, the way the metal pie server sounded on the bare glass, a similar scrape to a skate on clean ice. 

So he says:

“Aw, Derks, you tryin’ to pick me up?”

Jack couldn’t say it with the same sass that Eric used, and he wasn’t even going to attempt that hip sway, because he was wearing pads and not jeans that cupped his ass _just right_.  And Bittle would have skated right out of the check, never once looked back to see the effect.  It’d all be water off a duck’s back, with Bittle.

Jack, on the other hand, had to look.

*

_“Hey, dummy, can’t you hear us?  Turn around, you so pretty!”_

_“Nah, man, didn’t you see the boxes in her ears?”_

_“Yo, kid!  Yo mama so deaf, she need a sound system to hear you.”_

_“Hey, you know why farts smell?  So deaf people could enjoy them too.  Hey, lady, I got one brewin’, you wanna come in for a closer sniff?”_

_“Yo, deaf and dumb and blondie!  If you’re a nympho too, you come right on over to me, I’ll love you right.”_

_“You know why Helen Keller wore skin-tight pants?  So you could read her lips!”_

_Mama never heard ‘em._

_I did, though._

_“Mama?” I couldn’t even uncurl my fingers; my thumb only barely touched my chin, but she saw.  And she knew._

_“It’s just words, Derrick honey.  I don’t hear them.  You don’t either.  And they won’t hurt you none.”_

_Her hands flew through the air, dancing music to an invisible drumbeat.  Her back was straight, her chin was high, and I wished I couldn’t hear the boys laughing behind us, either._

*

The player – Derks, Jack had heard the others shout his name when he’d made his only goal earlier in the game – stared back at him, white face and wide eyes.  Shocked and hollow and stunned.  His jaw hung open, his mouth guard hanging by a lip, and Jack could see the beads of sweat on his brow quivering.

Derks still held him up against the board, but there wasn’t any pressure in it.  Jack wondered if the kid had even realized it was him when he spoke – and then he saw his eyes.

Scared.  He was fucking _scared_.  Staring at Jack as if he’d never been chirped a day in his life, staring as if Jack might actually….

_Shit_.

Jack felt his stomach drop, and skated away before the Canadian in him made him apologize.

The Falcs won, 6-3.

*

In the majors, you hear all kinds of shit on the ice.  Some of it, yeah, it’s the same old shit I heard when I was fifteen and green and didn’t know squat.  But a lot of times, it’s more creative, it’s stuff you think about when you read up on the other teams.  There’s a strategy to chirping.  It’s meant to unsettle the other guy, rattle him enough to get him off his game, off the puck, _off your fuckin’ ice_ , and the chirps that work best are the personal ones.

I’ve been hearing that shit since I was five.  There ain’t nothing going to rattle me.  I learned from the best.

I’ve dished it out with the best, too.  I’ve said all kinds of shit, most of which I don’t remember when I’ve skated away.  No one remembers that shit.  It doesn’t mean anything.  It’s fucking _chirping_ , and if you can’t take a chirp, you don’t belong on the ice.  No matter what they throw at you.  No matter what you throw back.

I belong on the ice.  I’ve known it since I was ten, known I had to do whatever it took to stay there.  Let those words roll off my back like water and a duck.  They’re just words.  Sticks and stones, man.  I don’t hear ‘em, they don’t hurt me none. 

*

Jack didn’t have long to wait.  The players on the Bruins team did their press interviews and cleared out, heading for their own cars or the T.  Most of them gave Jack a second glance on their way; some gave him a brisk nod of hello.  None of them said anything, and that was fine.

Derks was the last one out.  That was fine, too.

Derks took one look at him, and stopped right in the doorway to the Bruins’ locker room.  His jaw went tight, and his fingers clenched the strap of his duffel bag.  After a moment, he ducked his head and kept on walking, clearly intent on heading straight out without a word, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200 (in fines for unprofessional conduct on the ice).

“Hey,” said Jack.

Derks stopped walking.  He fiddled with the strap, but didn’t look up.  “Look, man, I’m sorry.  It just slipped.  Would have said it to anyone.  Wasn’t about you.”

“Yeah,” said Jack.  “Chirping.  I get it.  It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” mumbled Derks, but he started walking again, right up to Jack, even though he was clearly wanting to go past and out and _gone_.

His shoulder brushed Jack’s as he went past.  Jack expected him to flinch, skitter away, jump back – _something._  

Derks just kept walking.  Like brushing by Jack didn’t mean anything.  Like Derks didn’t actually care who – or what – Jack was.

“Hey,” said Jack, to Derks’s retreating back.  “What I said.  On the ice.”

Derks stopped walking.

“Just… you looked….”

Derks didn’t move.

“I won’t say anything.”

“Nothing to say,” said Derks, tightly, and then started moving again.

“You don’t have to talk big, you know.  To make them think bigger of you.  To throw them off track.”

Derks turned around without even breaking stride.  His face was twisted, contorted, a cross between exasperation and deep sorrow.

“It’s so fucking _easy_ for you,” said Derks, snapping out his words.  “You’ve got the name, the game, your old man’s richer than Croesus, they’re gonna rename it the Zimmermann touch, everything you got is _golden_ , man.  It ain’t so easy for the rest of us to be brave, okay?  You might be living a fuckin’ Katy Perry song, but I just… I _can’t_.  I’m not as brave as you are, man.  I’m just… not.”

Jack couldn’t move.  His heart thudded in his chest; he felt cold and sweaty and his fingers tingled.  He opened his mouth to speak – but couldn’t make a sound.

Derks let the door slam behind him on the way out; the heavy thud echoed in the hallway, and had died off before Jack took a breath, and went to catch the team bus back to Providence.

*

For me, hockey comes first.  But that’s true of most guys in the NHL.  The rest is just posturing.  Some find the posturing easier than others, but I guess that’s true of most things in life.

I was crushing on the ice (both literally and figuratively) for a good decade before I was crushing on my hockey coach (also both literally and figuratively). 

I don’t have time for that shit anyway.  Even if I thought I could get away with it, even if the whole damn league came out wearing flags and marching in a parade. 

Hockey first.  Hockey last.  Hockey in between.

There’s a video chat request blinking on Skype when I log in at home.  Just like I knew there would be.  Mama watches every game and can read lips like no one’s business.  When she’s really furious, her hands move faster than the crap video camera built in on her laptop can catch, and she says she don’t need a new one, which is why I’m gonna break it with a ballpoint pen and give her a good one for Christmas.

You can’t hide shit from Mama.  She reads me better than anyone, whether she sees my lips or fingers or not. 

Or maybe I’m more of an open book than I thought.

*

It was one in the morning when Jack finally made it home.  The light was on in Eric’s office, the outline of the door glowing in the dark hallway.  Jack frowned at the light, and then shook his head.  He went back to drop the bag of damp and sweaty clothes in the laundry room and kicked off his shoes before grabbing one of the health-nut coconut energy bars Eric preferred from the fridge.  It didn’t taste entirely like shit, but it was easy and he was starving.

He was just popping the last of it in his mouth as he pushed open Eric’s office door to find him curled up under a blanket at the computer desk.  The only bits of him showing were the hand holding the mouse, and his head peeking out above the blanket.  His nose was still bright red, and there was a pile of used tissues that hadn’t quite made it as far as the trash can.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Jack scolded Eric gently.

Eric glanced up, surprised.  “You’re supposed to be on the bus for another half hour.  I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No traffic on 95,” said Jack, and sat down on the couch to take off his socks.  “Why are you still awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep – oh my god, Jack, do you _have_ to do that in here?”

“Have to check your sinuses are clear somehow,” said Jack.  “Did you watch the game?”

“Of course.  How’s the shoulder?”

Jack rotated his right arm in a wide circle, and didn’t wince.  He could see Eric fight the yawn, and wondered if he should even mention what else had occurred during the check.  “It’ll do.”

*

There’s a lot of shit gets said on the ice.  None of it means anything.  You play the game with sticks and stones.  That’s the real game.

Words are just… words.  Sticks and stones, man.  Sticks and stones.

*

Jack leaned against the doorframe and watched Eric brush his teeth.  Here, in the quiet of the bedroom, he could hear the rush of the water as Eric rinsed his mouth and toothbrush, his breath as he waited for Eric to finish, the crickets outside the windows chirping their amusement.

“I’m not brave,” said Jack, and Eric turned off the water as he reached for a towel.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” he said, amused, “where did you get that idea?”

“I’m not,” Jack insisted.

Eric huffed quietly as he hung the towel back up.  “Well, go on thinking that, if it makes you feel better.  I believe in you, but I don’t believe in _that_.”

Eric reached up on his toes to kiss the corner of Jack’s mouth.  He smelled like mint and menthol drops, and Jack closed his eyes tight, wondering why the odd, empty feeling as if his heart had stopped again had reappeared in his chest. 

Eric was already in the bed when Jack joined him.  Eric wrapped his arms around Jack from behind, and kissed his ear, on the sloppy side of sleepy.  Jack reached up and held onto Eric’s forearms.  It wasn’t often he was the little spoon – but somehow, tonight it felt right.

Bittle keeping _him_ safe. 

“Goodnight, Jack,” said Eric, quiet and soft and nearly asleep.

Jack thought of Derks, of the echoing door in the empty hallway, of the lost, hollow feeling he remembered all too well.  Of having to wait for five weeks for a slur that when it came, still had its sting, but… not really.

Jack closed his eyes, listening to the chirping crickets, Eric’s soft breathing behind him.  His heartbeat was steady, even if it ached, just a bit. He felt tired, comfortable, _fine_.

“Goodnight,” he said, held tight to Bittle, and slept.

 


End file.
